Page 1 of The Book of Unwritten Stories

PROLOGUE

SALEM VILLAGE, 1680

Lucine wiped her brow with her sleeve, glad she had worn her linen cap to cover her silver hair under the heat of the midday sun. Knee-deep in soil, her fingernails caked with mud, this was where she was at her happiest, weeding the herb and vegetable patch that she had so lovingly nurtured since they had moved into the wooden homestead that bordered the edge of the woods in Salem village. They had chosen this house because it was far enough from the other dwellings to give them the privacy they sought. Her sisters, Lenora and Seraphina, did not care much for the villagers, but they did their best to help and heal them should they call on them for elixirs and potions to ail their illnesses.

Today, Seraphina and Lenora had gone to market, and Lucine had left her four-year-old daughter, Isadora, asleep inside. The child had a fever and had not been in good health the last two days. As she looked up Lucine saw a strange glow inside of the cottage, shining out through the windows.

Her first thought was that there was a fire. She threw down the hand trowel she had been digging with and screeched. Gathering her petticoats in her hands she ran as fast as she could towards the house. She had to get Isadora out.

Bursting through the door she saw that there was no fire and remembered that they hadn’t set one for it was too warm outside. Isadora had been burning up enough and Lucine hadn’t wanted to make her hotter.

Lucine cupped a hand over her mouth at what she saw. Isadora lay on the floor. Next to her was the wooden chest. And she held the book. The precious book Lucine had been hiding from her. The book of spells that her beloved John had given her to take care of. The book she was afraid to use or even have out of the box for Lucine knew if any villagers were to see she had a spell book then she would be held on witchcraft charges.

The book was open in front of Isadora, who was tracing her tiny fingers over the pages. Were gold and blue sparks flying from the hand-carved leatherbound cover, or was she imagining it? She thought of the man who had given her the book; his smell of leather and soap filled her nostrils, she could almost feel his strong arms around her shoulders, his warm touch. The man with dark hair who made her feel as if she could never love another.

A high-pitched giggle from Isadora shook Lucine out of her daydreams and back to the here and now. The faster Isadora moved her fingers the brighter the sparks grew, until it looked as if there were a thousand fireflies dancing above her daughter’s head. She ran across the room and scooped the child into her arms, shocking her so much she began to cry.

The room went dark, and all of the blue and gold lights went out much to Lucine’s relief. If someone from the village had walked in here and watched her daughter, they would all be swinging from the end of a rope before the end of the week. For she could not explain it, and they would call them witches.

‘Shh, Isadora. I am sorry, but you must not play with the book, ’tis not for you, there is much danger within the pages. Have I not told you before about this, child?’

Isadora sobbed. ‘Yes, Mamma.’

‘It is not a thing to play with; it is very precious and has to be kept locked away where it is safe. For if anyone from the village were to see it, they would steal it and then it would not be ours. Your father gave that book to me and one day I will give it to you, now is not that day. You are too young to understand, I know this, but thou must listen to me when I tell thee to never unlock the box unless I tell thee to.’

Isadora sobbed into Lucine’s shoulder. Her small body was burning still from the fever, and she wished she had not scared her so much. It was not the child’s fault the book fascinated her. Lucine feared that the book and the power it held inside of it was making her child just as powerful and were that to happen among a village full of strict Puritans it would be a death sentence for them all.

She kissed the top of Isadora’s head softly, inhaling the sweet smell of fresh straw she had used to stuff the mattress and the milk she had spoon-fed her before she had gone to work outside.

She put Isadora back into her bed and scooped up the book; it was heavy and she wondered at the strength it had taken little Isadora to lift it out of the chest but there was no light coming out of it as there had been moments ago. Where had it gone, this power, magic? Whatever it may be, it scared Lucine, and she wished for the hundredth time that John had not given the book to her for safekeeping. He had said that it might save her life one day, though Lucine did not agree. She thought that it would be the very thing that could end it.

The wooden chest had been locked, she was sure of that; her fingers felt under her linen dress for the key in case she had lost it. No, it was there, she could feel the strip of leather with the tiny metal key pressing against the base of her throat. Somehow Isadora had managed to open it without a key – she must hide it better than this. She looked to the child who had sobbed herself back into a fevered sleep once more and whispered, ‘I will keep thee safe, child, but how can I stop thee from using powers that I have no control over?’

Lucine picked up the chest and looked around for a better place to store it. She began to pull the straw out from her bed and placed it underneath, then covered it over again with the blankets. It was the best she could do now, and she just hoped it was enough until Isadora could understand the danger the book may bring to them all.

ONE

SALEM, PRESENT DAY

Morana Williams loved cemeteries, she always had. When the sun was at its lowest and the darkness of the inky sky was creeping in to blot out the light, she found her peace wandering through them alone. Truth was she was always alone and had been most of her life, since her mom had walked out on her at twelve years old and died in a car wreck, but she tried not to dwell on her childhood, as it was far too painful for her.

She paused at the same spot every time she walked down Charter Street on her way to work. No matter if it was torrential rain, burning sun or flurries of snow. She took a few minutes to soak in the atmosphere and her surroundings. The Old Burying Point was the oldest cemetery in Salem, one of the oldest in the country, and she always felt drawn to the dilapidated Grimshaw house that had stood on the edge of it since 1770, overlooking the headstones. The front of the house had been renovated and restored, now looking resplendent in its rusty red and yellow paintwork, but the back of the house was still falling to bits. The row of gravestones directly in front of it were so close to the property that whoever had lived there could lean out of the window and touch them with their fingertips.

Morana would find herself staring into the upper floor windows expecting to see one of the Peabody sisters who’d once owned it, still dressed in Victorian clothing, to be staring back at her.

The black crow that seemed to follow her most days was sitting preening itself on the lowest hanging branch of the ancient, sprawling oak tree the locals called the Mother Tree. Its black eyes stared at her, and she nodded to it and whispered, ‘Good morning.’ It nodded back and she caught herself. Wild birds didn’t nod hello, did they?

Continuing the short walk to Front Street and Nocturne, the beautiful store she worked in, she unlocked the door and hurried inside.

It smelled divine in here with all the handcrafted scented candles. But Morana felt a little out of sorts. She stared at her reflection in the huge vintage gilt mirror. ‘Nocturne’ was written in gold lettering across the middle of it surrounded by gold stars and a crescent moon directly above. Dressed in a long black dress with vintage lace sleeves that reached to her fingers, Morana felt like the queen of the night. Her jet-black hair was loosely waved and her signature pale make-up and deep red lips made her look as if she was either Morticia Addams’s younger sister or Elvira’s. Turning her neck slightly she looked at her reflection. She knew that something wasn’t right.

A few days ago, she had felt a whole shift in her energy and could not explain the sense of something heavy that had settled over her like the velvet cloak she sometimes wore to stroll through the streets of Salem.

The vintage emporium sold all manner of beautiful, handcrafted items that she would marvel over daily and more often than not spend a good portion of her own wages on. There was a pewter planchette with a vibrant green peridot crystal in the centre of it that Morana had noticed as soon as she’d walked into the shop today. Nestled between the usual crystal necklaces in the jewellery cabinet she had paused to stare at it. It had called her name as clear as day. She’d heard it whisper in her ear, in a sing-song voice – Morana – and she’d had to step away from it. Sure, Kim who owned the shop had been the one to whisper to her, but Kim wasn’t in work today. She was over at the office across the street that just happened to be housed in the old Salem police station, where it was rumoured that Harry Houdini made an escape from back in the day. So, Morana ignored the voice calling to her and began her daily routine of making sure the shop was ready for the steady flow of customers that would descend upon it.

October was a busy time, the crowds were unbelievable, but it was fun if not also a little tiring. Flicking a feather duster around the stunning vintage lamps that Kim picked up from estate sales, she could not stop thinking about the necklace, wondering who had brought it in. The shop sold lots of vintage items, stuff that had been preloved, and sometimes she picked up on the previous owner’s vibes. She was more than a little bit psychic when it came to speaking to the dead. A fact that she’d tried desperately to hide. There was already so much about her that set her apart. Besides, speaking to the dead could become a full-time position and take over her life if she let it. On the days she felt a little lost she wondered if she should give in to her gift and open her own little magic shop in the heart of downtown Salem. Her love of tarot was stronger than her love of vintage jewellery.

She knew there was not a cat in hell’s chance she would be leaving the shop without the planchette around her neck. She felt herself pulled towards it and could already feel her purse lighten – she just hoped it wouldn’t cost her too much. It had called her name, and it wanted her as much as she wanted it. Morana wasn’t sure why she was putting off the inevitable. She should just get it over with and leave a note for Kim to take the money out of her wages.